Up on the House Top Thud, Thud, Thud
by Mostly Harmless III
Summary: Clark Kent, universe-traveling journalist, gets to interview Santa Claus. An incredibly hot, tank-driving, vigilante Santa. Who knows kung-fu. They spend a white Christmas together and things get steamy. AU. SLASH. Clark x Bruce


Title: Up on the House Top (Thud, Thud, Thud)

Author: harmless_one  
Pairing: Bruce/Clark

Rating: R

Warnings: Identity wonkiness, smut, OOC-ness, tanks. Not beta-read and long because I don't do short fics. 20,000 words. Merry Christmas.

Summary: Clark Kent is a universe touring journalist out for an interview with Santa Claus, but he meets Bruce Wayne DRESSED as Santa for charity instead. Romance and smut are the natural result.

Author's Notes: This was written for the World's Finest Gift Exchange over at livejournal. It's a comedy, so please believe my tongue is still firmly embedded in my cheek.

* * *

M. Harmless Presents

A Christmas Tale

(Of the Utmost Cheerful)

Featuring:

The Beloved and Esteemed Messrs. Wayne and Kent

(And a Cast of Other, Familiar and Lovable Characters)

Formally Entitled:

Up on the House Top (Thud, Thud, Thud)

But Otherwise Known As:

Deck Your Own Bloody Halls

* * *

Alfred pointed at Bruce's cheek. "Grease, I believe," he said. "From that wretched project of yours."

"Finished it tonight," Bruce said proudly. He looked at himself in the department store window and wiped at his cheek. "Much better. And look at me! Just 'red'?" he said loudly, arms akimbo. "Hah! I'm much more than that. I look jolly!" He turned from side to side. His lumpy middle took a minute to catch up with the rest of him.

"Indeed," said his butler. He tilted his head to the side and there was a cheerful ringing of bells that didn't match with the scowl on the man's face. "I have come to regret my earlier indiscretion."

"I just bet you have!" Bruce guffawed. "Those shoes are incredible."

The butler rolled his eyes and something high above caught his attention. "Hmmm," he said, "curious."

"A falling star!" said Bruce. He clapped Alfred on the shoulder with a little too much force. The bells rang again. "Make a wish!"

"I don't think you want me to do that, Master Bruce. If it came true, I'd be out of an employer."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, sir. Shall we?"

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

He always liked visiting this planet.

It was so surprising every time.

And it made him very dateable. People who heard that he made _frequent_ trips to Earth thought he was the Coolest. Thing. Ever.

The broadcast his boss had intercepted ("Solid proof, my boy! Now we've got him! Go get that interview!") played softly in the background but he didn't need to hear it: He had the details memorized. _"And Santa Claus will be appearing at Darcy's Department Store in fashionable Downtown Gotham!"_ said the announcer with the pleasing voice. _"Tonight and only tonight! Single ladies, prepare for a surprise! Tickets on sale now!"_

He fiddled with a control or two, singing a cheerful song to himself and filling in the parts he didn't know with "Hum, hum."

"God rest you merry hum, hum, hum let nothing you dismay. Remember hum, hum-hum, hum, hum, was born on Christmas hum."

He turned one knob to the right.

"To save us all from hum, hum, hum when we were hummidy hum."

He turned another knob to the left.

"Oh, tidings of comfort and hum, comfort and hum."

He hit a switch.

The ship lurched. Then it kind of wobbled. Then there was just a steady kind of tremor. Something went "Clang!"

"Warning, warning," said the computer, "stabilizer controls have encountered an unknown error. Atmospheric adjustment has been compromised. Insufficient disk space. Would you like to defrag?"

"De-wha?" he asked the computer. "Now's not the time for that! Stabilize!" Buttons were pushed, switches were flipped.

"Command not recognized. An upgrade is available for your system, would you like to install?"

"Don't install anything! Just stop wobbling!" He hit a button. He hit it again. He hit it again really hard and his thumb went right through the console.

"Oh, right," he said. "Yellow suns."

The console started to spark. And then it started to smoke. "Please select 'System Preferences' from the Start Menu…"

And as the ship plummeted at cheek rippling speeds towards the swirled blue and green marble, the sole passenger remembered something:

"I can fly," he said. The watch-like device on his wrist told him that he wasn't far from his destination. He could make it.

The hatch opened a little slower than usual. He guessed it had something to do with the computer screaming "Vista! Vista!" over and over. He didn't know for sure.

He leapt.

The ship went smoking and sparking one way and he went another. The world and the forests and the cities were just as lovely as he remembered, sparkling beneath him like some magical kingdom in a fairy story.

And nearing. The device on his wrist told him that he was close. It also told him he was going too fast.

As the city ahead of him grew and grew, he remembered one more important thing:

Flying was easy, but he sucked at landing.

BOOM.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Our story begins.

Pavement shattered. Cracked and cracked again. Chunks of the blacktop launched into the air and rained back down. It was California 1906 all over again. Only localized to a broad thoroughfare. And not in San Francisco at all, but Gotham City on a midnight purple evening where the stars were candlelight twinkles in the sky. It was a magical night.

Christmas Eve to be precise.

Dozens of car alarms blared, worse than when the Gotham South Marching Band took to the street. The shrieking sound of automotive panic took the silent night and ripped it into the tiny pieces. The Darcy's Department Store, seven stories high and so posh even its maintenance crew had superior airs, shook on its foundation. Something had landed. The ground smoked and everything from the falling snow to the festive lights, held its breath, waiting to see what had fallen in the heart of the city.

Classy, expensively-dressed Gothamites pulled back in fear. Pretty ladies dressed like Jackie O. held tight to their husbands' arms and covered their red mouths with gloved hands. "W-what is it?" they whispered.

From the hole left in the street, something emerged.

It was huge, like a god of old. It was terri—

The women dropped their arms and their jaws followed. The men raised their eyebrows collectively.

It was a guy in an ugly, tree-patterned, Christmas sweater and khaki pants. Several in the crowd had to admit that, were not for the conquering invader thing, he'd be a handsome man. In fact, the sweater was the scariest thing about him, but there was no accounting for taste with aliens.

The alien coughed, once. Then he dusted all the dirt and gravel off of his arms and fixed the flattering and shiny curl of black hair that split his forehead in two until it was once again flattering and shiny.

Almost out of thin air, the alien placed a pair of dark-rimmed glasses on his nose. It was transformative: He had gone from Richard Gere to Richard Nixon in an instant. Finally, he looked around at all the lovely ladies and their dashing, protective husbands. He seemed to think. Then he shrugged.

"Your atmosphere," he said. "What a trip."

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

In order to look as if he weighed three hundred pounds, instead of just over two, Bruce Wayne, blue-blood billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist, was wearing a pillow under the suit.

No, not the suit.

THE suit.

Earlier that evening, when commenting on his appearance, Alfred Pennyworth, his loyal, faithful, sharp-tongued and dry-witted butler, had said, "Yes. Well. Ahem. I get the overall impression of _red_, Sir. Very red, indeed."

Bruce had taken offense.

That had been the last of Alfred's comments. The butler was currently standing at Bruce's side, dressed as an elf. There were bells on his little curly shoes and on the tip of his little hat. He wasn't allowed to complain, nor shy from photographers. Bruce Wayne could be a cruel, cruel bastard sometimes.

Darcy's, this year and every year before, was THE place for Christmas. In the heart of the first floor, just past the fragrance counters, Santa's Workshop had been erected for one night only. Lines of people bounced on their heels, eager for a chance to tell Santa their Christmas wish. The Jolly Old Elf, however, wasn't doing this gig just for the cookies.

"Who are we doing this for again?" Bruce asked, scratching at his nose (like a cherry). "Orphaned, starving children in Caracas, or something?"

"All heart, as always, Master Bruce," said Santa's Best Little Elf, Alfred.

"Call me 'Santa,'" Bruce snapped. He winked at one of the waiting ladies down below. "I'm sure the name is really important here. You don't want the underfed children from Caracas to overhear you, now do you?" Bruce didn't seem to notice that the audience, except for a few children, was mostly eager-looking women.

"Fine then: All heart, as always, _Santa_," Alfred amended. "And the proceeds from tonight will go to the children's hospital."

"Oh. Right." Bruce scratched at his wig, smiled, and waved hugely at the next person in line.

Strands of the faux beard kept getting stuck in his mouth. He'd given up on "Ho, ho, ho," about twenty minutes ago for just that reason. He was now the kind of Santa who waved and pointed and nodded at people.

A buxom, rouged and coifed redhead slinked her way onto Bruce's lap. "Well, hello, _Santa_," she purred.

Santa laughed hugely, his pillow of a belly refusing to shake like a bowl full of anything. Bruce had lost count of the number of slinky women who had sat on his lap since the start of the night. And while he put on a brave face, there were several factors about the evening that he probably should have considered beforehand:

1) The money for the hospital was coming from people _paying_ to see Santa.

2) The only reason they were *paying* to see Santa was because Darcy's and the hospital had launched an expensive ad campaign with the reputable papers and TV stations informing everyone about the good cause.

3) Then they leaked that Santa was really Bruce Wayne, young, handsome and *single,* billionaire to the trash magazines and gossip columns.

4) Meaning that every gold digger and lonely spinster was out for blood tonight and he might as well have had a raw steak tied to his neck. And lastly:

There were difficulties in wearing his _other_ suit under the Santa suit.

If something happened, he was in no way dressed for heroics.

"I've been a very good girl," said the debutante, wiggling on his lap. Her hand wandered and she frowned when she realized how quickly Santa had caught it before it touched base, as it were.

"You're quick," she breathed.

"It's in the job description. I'd ask you what you want for Christmas," Bruce said, "but I have a feeling I already know."

"Yes, but I _do_ have a list," said the redhead, eyebrows waggling.

Five minutes of dirty talk later, she finally bounced away. Alfred was speechless for the first time all night. Bruce looked a little disturbed. Luckily, a few parents had brought the little kiddies by to meet Santa. The occasional tot, Bruce told Alfred, was a good distraction from the parade of imaginative women.

A five-year-old with a lisp (Chris, he said, but it came out 'Chrithh') waddled up and took the lady's place.

"Hiya, Thanta. I wote you a ledder. Didya get ith?"

"Ummm."

"Maybe ish jush late. Anyway, I wanna thoccer ball an'a twain set an'a Wii an'a Wii thennis racketth an'a Guithar Hero guithar an'a…"

BOOM

Something thundered like a volcano and the building shook. The lights flickered. A heartbeat later and babies and children were screaming as the crowd panicked. Bruce and Alfred exchanged disbelieving looks.

Bruce stood and prepared to leap into action, to save the day. What it looked like was Santa, arms still wrapped around a chattering kid ("an'a Seline Mustang an'a Playboy Bunny an'a…"), trying to look daring.

"It came from outside!" Alfred said. He stood on his toes and tried to look over the heads of the rushing crowd below the platform. Jingle, jingle, went Alfred.

Santa nodded, crouched, and performed an athletic move that sent him soaring over the platform barrier of poinsettias and candy canes. He was already moving the minute his feet hit, heading towards the disturbance outside.

Caracas was the furthest thing from his mind.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la:~*~*

Back on the street, what was left of it, the alien turned in a circle. He pushed the dorky glasses back up his nose. When he reached into his pocket, the gawking crowd gasped.

What horrible weapon would this—albeit, decidedly normal-looking—alien wield?

From the depths of his ugly pants came a deadly, threatening—

Tiny, yellow notepad and pencil.

Confused frowns dotted the crowd. A few ladies and gentlemen tried to recall _exactly_ how many glasses of wine they'd had.

The alien cocked his head, mumbling, "I thought it was right here." He looked at his watch. Then his wide mouth pulled up in a self-mocking smile. "Ah," he said. "Missed the landing by one-hundred feet."

He took a step towards Darcy's, then stopped. His face lit up like—well, yes—like Christmas.

"Santa!" he breathed softly.

For, indeed, a fat man in a red suit was standing outside the department store. There was an incredibly fake-looking beard on his chin. He was looking back and forth between the man standing next to the crater in the street and the crater itself. The fat man's mouth was obscured by the bushy mustache (maybe glued to the beard?), but it was guaranteed that it was hanging open stupidly.

The most striking thing about the man was that he was holding a small child. The boy was overdressed in a snowsuit, swinging from the fat man's arms, and talking away as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

"An' a harrier jet an' a Hadron Collider an' a…"

Santa looked down with surprise at the child he'd been toting around as if noticing him for the first time.

"Kid," he said, setting the boy down as gently as he seemed capable. "Go find your parents."

"But I washn't finithed wif my lith."

"You were. Go. Now." Oddly, the voice Santa used was dark gravel and nightmares churned together. The kid turned Ghost-of-Christmas-Past white and ran.

Just then, a panting and rake-thin man in ridiculous curly-toed shoes stormed out of the building and practically flew down the steps to stand by Santa.

Jingle, jingle.

He was dressed as the very idea of an elf, big buttons and big-buckled belt included.

The alien frowned. He'd always imagined them…shorter.

But that was the important part of this assignment he realized. He had to learn The Truth.

"Mr. Claus," the alien said, boldly advancing on St. Nicholas (neither jolly nor particularly old-looking). "I'm here to interview you."

"Do hubbidy wha?" Santa answered, scratching his head. It tilted his hat off-center and dark, black hair poked out, curling with sweat at the ends.

"You _are_ Santa," gulped the alien in the ugly sweater, "aren't you?" He sounded uncertain. Underneath that uncertainty was childlike hope.

The staunch-looking elf behind Santa cracked a rather malicious smile, as if he had been secretly planning revenge all night. "Why, of course he is! There is no other," he said.

Santa whirled on his elf. His expression was a gingerly cross between incensed and disbelieving.

"Great!" the alien beamed. "I already know all about you, but I guess I should introduce myself. I'm—"

The questionably intoxicated spectators held their breath. What sinister name would this being possess? They all guessed it would be something appropriate menacing, like 'Voldemort' or 'Tiamat' or 'Mitt Romney.'

"—Clark Kent," the alien finished.

The spectators mentally threw up their hands and gave up. They had all harbored suspicions that the good, creepy aliens only ever landed out west, like in New Mexico or California (after all, _something_ had to explain that state). Now their suspicions were confirmed: Gotham got the most boring, meat and potatoes alien to ever land in the lower 48. The disappointed crowd began dispersing while the gaping crater steamed.

Bruce Wayne stared at Clark Kent and vice versa. The fluorescent light from the Darcy's Department Store window was like a spotlight, catching the two and holding them, still like the figures from a nativity scene.

For a moment, the snow seemed to hover as their eyes did a dance, a tango, if you will. Or a samba. Or maybe it was that something so magnificent had happened that the ground was rushing up to meet the snow, fighting for that connection.

The elf looked between the two of them, coughed, and the spell was broken. Snow blanketed down once more.

"Uh, Clark, if you'll excuse us," Santa said. Clark smiled and watched as Santa grabbed the thin elf by the arm and dragged him away. He tried not to feel guilty that he could hear absolutely everything they said.

"I was only joking, sir. You don't have to play along. It's quite obvious that he thinks…and you're going to let him think…" Alfred managed through his pressed lips.

"He survived _that_," Santa said, pointing at the crater in the ground.

"Yes," said the elf. "But he doesn't seem threatening. Far from it."

"But there's no way to be sure and he is obviously more than the police could handle. He could be dangerous."

"Well, the good news is that he seems intent on sticking with you. This interview he was talking about, it certainly is a way to keep him in our sights."

Santa nodded. "Yes. And if he's up to something, I'll find out."

"But what of patrol?" the elf whispered.

"The mission doesn't stop just because I'm babysitting an alien," Santa said.

Clark wondered why Santa's voice was still the terrifying growl from before, but he guessed this was a part of the job: Finding out the truth about the legend was central to his assignment.

"But what are we going to _do_ with him?" the elf asked with a voice a few octaves too high.

"We'll take him back to the Cave, contact the League and let them handle it. They do aliens. I don't. All we have to do is wait for them to show and hand him over."

"So you won't join them, but you'll let them fix your problems?"

"Exactly."

"Hypocrisy is a trait that gets you coal instead of presents."

"But I'm Santa: I can get myself whatever the hell I want."

The two men turned to look at Clark who put his hands behind his back, kicked the pavement and tried to whistle. Then they exchanged a look, shrugged and returned to Clark's side. Santa looked at him with suspicion. "You're welcome to stay with me and get your story, Clark."

"Great!"

"But it's going to be a busy night. Can you keep up?"

Clark's crystal blue eyes crinkled at the edges. "Believe me: I can take care of myself."

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

"The police will arrive soon, Father Christmas," said the elf in what Clark suspected was a facetious tone of voice. "We should summon the reindeer and dash away, dash away all."

Santa clenched his teeth together. Finally, he ground out, "Dobby, you're my favorite elf. Have I ever told you?"

"Dobby," Clark Kent, the World's Most Ordinary Alien parroted, scribbling on his notepad. "Oh, this is good stuff. The elf names have been debated for so long, now I'll set the record straight."

Dobby opened his mouth and then let it snap shut. He turned to Santa. "The valet appears to have been scared away by the arrival of Mr. Kent, subtle as it was." He crossed his arms thoughtfully. "That's the last time I use parking services. The Lexus, lost in a parking garage! They probably scratched it, even. And I just had it waxed."

Clark stopped scribbling as if wondering how someone waxed Rudolph. In between stern looks at the elf and sterner looks at Clark, Santa was doing something with a small device he retrieved from his pocket.

It beeped just as sirens blared to life in the distance.

"Whatever you're planning, I hope it's faster than the police," Dobby said.

Underneath the mustache, Santa's smile was darkly mischievous. Dobby's face fell. "Please tell me you didn't," he said.

"I did."

"You had that thing on _standby_…on Christmas Eve! Your paranoia is, as always, well-timed and mildly disturbing."

"Thank you." Just then, there was the sound of tires screeching on asphalt. When Santa started walking at a brisk, long-legged stride, Dobby and Clark followed.

They stopped at the curb just as _something_ came to a powerful stop before them. It rolled forward, then back on wheels the size of boulders.

"Um…not a sleigh," Clark said. He searched for the word. "That's a tank."

"If it will make you feel better, I can paint it red," Santa said. "Ho, ho, ho."

He hit a button on the device and a hatch slid open. "Shall we?"

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Inside the tank was a spacious…war room. Clark didn't know what else to call it. Screens flashed dangerous looking messages and switches and toggles littered every available space. There was even a button that said, "ENGAGE REAR MISSILES." What Santa needed with those, he wasn't certain.

Clark sat beside the man and openly stared. It was obvious that he was neither as old nor as fat as he seemed. He drove like a madman. Dobby grumbled in the backseat and looked supremely uncomfortable.

On the street outside, other Santa Clauses stood on corners or stumbled out of bars. Some of them looked as shocked as Clark felt to see a tank barreling down a street. Part of him felt it necessary to stop and interview every single Santa he saw. But his orders had been very specific: He had the Santa he was here for. The REAL Santa, his boss had said. "Don't be fooled by imposters, Kal!"

He was ready to get that story.

Only…Clark was beginning to understand that Santa was very good at dodging questions. He was also good at prying information from Clark instead. Interrogation seemed to be a power Santa Claus had that never made the jingles or storybooks.

"What kind of alien name is Clark Kent, anyway?" Santa asked darkly.

"Oh, it's not my real name."

"I knew it! An alias! Come clean!"

"Um. No. See, I'm supposed to blend in, so I use the name my English teacher gave me. He made us all pick English names."

"They did that in French class," Santa said, scratching his head. "I was Jacque." He paused and a frown formed on his bearded face. "Waitaminute. _English_ class?"

"Three times a week and tutoring on Saturdays. I'm no good at remembering song lyrics, but I can write a mean article. My _real_ name is Kal, by the way."

"Kal?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to call you Kal?"

"You can…but Clark's okay."

"Hmmm."

Thinking Santa satisfied for the moment, Clark opened his mouth to ask one of the thousands of questions he had. But it turned out that Santa was a relentless guy.

"Is this a major story you're working on? 'The Life and Times of Santa Claus?"

Clark blushed. "Not exactly. This is kind of a puff piece. Human interest, you know." He'd volunteered for the job instead of covering a scientific breakthrough halfway across the galaxy. All expenses paid to his favorite planet and a chance to fly again? Nobody had twisted his arm.

Santa's voice suddenly went from curiously inquisitive to 'answer me or else.'

"How were you able to survive that fall?"

"Well," Clark said. His surprise at the change in Santa's tone showed in his voice. "The truth is that I'm not normally this strong. And there's a perfectly logical, scientific explanation for the effects of yellow suns on Kryptonian physiology, but it's a bit boring." Clark laughed but Bruce didn't. "Um. The long and the short of it is that we end up being a bit godlike on planets like Earth. Actually, there used to be speculation that Santa was really a Kryptonian living on Earth in violation of the Universal Security Act."

"What does the act do?" Dobby spoke up, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the back of Clark's seat. Clark craned his neck around and smiled at the elf.

"When our lawmakers noticed that *certain* Kryptonians were taking advantage of loose universal travel regulations to go live like gods, they created the Universal Security Act to limit travel to planets with yellow suns. Chuck Norris got in his naturalization papers before the law passed."

The tank swerved, but was righted soon after.

"Are you okay, Santa?" Clark asked worriedly.

"Just fine," Santa said clearly, but mumbled something about, "bloody Chuck _Norris_." Once he stopped mumbling he jumped back in to questioning Clark.

"So, are more of your journalist, Kryptonian friends planning on visiting, hmm? With an army, maybe? Hmmm?"

"Army?"

"Say, an invasion force?"

Clark opened his mouth to answer and then looked down at his notepad. He had absolutely nothing on Santa. The (questionably) chubby guy had been asking _him_ questions from the word 'go.'

He flipped ahead a few pages in his notepad to The List and started scribbling. The list of things Santa could do was changing and expanding. He wrote N/A next to things that were mutations of the truth and wrote the fact alongside it. Undeniable truths got checks beside them. For things he didn't know yet, he put a question mark.

1) Time manipulation (?)  
2) Twinkling eyes (check)  
3) Can train flying reindeer (?) (see #4)  
4) Posesses flying reindeer (N/A) -- Drives a massive tank  
5) Knows when you've been bad or good (N/A) -- Unrivaled interrogation skills  
6) Flight (up chimneys) (?)  
7) Knows when you've been sleeping (?)  
8) Knows when you're awake (?)  
9) Bottomless bag of toys and gifts (N/A) -- No, really, just a tank

So far, he was failing miserably to do his job. Only one check on the list and it was subjective.

"No invasion force," he answered quickly. "Just me. Now, tell me a little bit about you. How did you get the job?"

"Darcy's called and I answered the phone," the elf said from the back.

"Darcy's?" asked Clark.

"Well, to be honest, it was a delightful PR rep named Angie who had this idea about funding a children's hospital. I believe she sat on Santa's lap for five minutes and asked for something unspeakable."

"Huh?" Clark said.

"Charity, you know," continued the elf. "It's very important."

Clark scribbled something to stall for time while he tried to think of what to say. "Uh, Mr. Claus?"

Santa gritted his teeth and took a wild corner. "Yes. Charity is very important."

Clark worried his lip. That had been another dead end. He tried again. "So…You have many names: St. Nicholas, St. Nick, Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle. What do your friends call you?"

Santa glanced his way. "Bruce," he said at last. There was something hopeful yet resigned in the tone.

Clark swallowed. "Just 'Bruce'?"

"Yes. Just Bruce."

"Can, um, can _I_ call you Bruce?"

Santa cleared his throat. "Yes. Please do."

"Okay. Bruce," Clark whispered. He felt a little dizzy. "So, um, Bruce, tell me about the reindeer."

Bruce cursed softly under his breath. "No reindeer. We've upgraded."

"To tanks?"

"The kiddies stay on the straight and narrow when they're terrified of you!" the elf chimed in from the back. "And you can call _me_ 'Alfred' but I doubt it will make you go all breathless and glassy-eyed in the same way." Clark didn't have to look to know that 'Alfred' was rolling his eyes.

"I thought your name was Dobby."

The elf laughed a dry, harsh bark. "Santa is such a kidder. It's all the cookies: They give him the jollies."

The tank took out a streetlight.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

On the way to Earth, Clark had thought up some titles for the piece. He'd finally settled on "My Night With Santa." It was to the point and it had a certain ring to it.

Santa—_Bruce_—had contacted someone and was speaking in serious tones through a small device in his ear. Clark tried really hard not to eavesdrop. But it was a young woman with an authoritative and amused voice talking to Father Christmas like the entire operation was her idea. He was intrigued.

The super hearing was one of the powers he missed whenever he had to go back to Krypton.

"Oracle, we have a tail," Bruce said, fingers deft over the controls.

"I'm seeing that, Boss," the voice said back, all sass and know-it-all.

A lot of what was said between the two was in a code of some kind. Clark jotted that down on his notepad. For all that he believed it would be a puff piece, a "My Night With Santa" was turning out to be the most surprising story he'd ever done.

"Actually, it looks like more than a few people are trying to find you. Did you steal nuclear secrets or something?"

Bruce glanced over at Clark. "Not exactly, but you're not far off."

"Okay, you can tell me later. Whatever you've got, I'm reading that you're going to get blocked in here pretty quick. You can try to outrace them, or I guess you could just run them over with your tank." Oracle waited for a heartbeat and when Bruce said nothing, she snapped, "You're not going to run them over with your tank!"

"Maybe just their cars."

"You're hopeless! So…is this connected to the hole in the street outside Darcy's that's on all the news stations?"

"Maybe."

"That explains a lot. I'm afraid," she began, stopping only to take a quick sip of coffee, "that the feds are involved. You'll be seeing them soon if you keep on the road you're on."

"I just got a visual. Thanks."

"Um…did you just *thank me*? What's gotten into you? Ah, well. Never mind. Oh, and Boss? Good luck."

Bruce grunted understanding and said, "Roger. Over and out." Once again, the line was silent. Bruce suddenly eased the tank off the main road and started heading under overpasses. He seemed to be getting deeper into the lower, seedier parts of Gotham.

Suddenly, he did something with the wheel and the shifter that had the butt of the tank kicking out hard and then the whole massive thing was skidding—drifting—off the street and into a wide alley. When they were still, Bruce killed all the lights and Clark imagined that the flat black tank disappeared into the shadows, invisible by design.

Past the entrance to the alley, six, seven, eight identical black cars, no plates, no markings, streamed. After them came two squad cars. Bruce didn't move, didn't speak and his breathing was as quiet as snowfall. Alfred was the same, listening to the silence with an intense expression on his face.

Clark could respect that something was happening, even if he didn't know exactly what. He waited the minutes out with them. Finally, Bruce brought the tank to life again and carefully edged it out of the alley. It must have been luck that had gotten them in the first time, because he clipped the corner of the building on the way out. Brick and mortar crashed down and then were crushed to dust by the treads of the tank.

"Oops," Bruce said, and maybe he really meant it. Alfred slapped his forehead but said nothing.

In the silence that followed, Clark decided to ask a few questions. Oddly, the first one that came to mind was not, "So, why were we hiding in an alley just now?" Instead he said, "So, was that Mrs. Claus?" He swallowed and wondered why he really cared a lot about the answer.

"Mrs. Claus?" Bruce said confusedly. "Oh! Oracle? No! Good God, no!" Bruce said on a laugh that was mostly disbelief.

"Is there one? A Mrs. Claus, I mean."

"Dozens of them," said Alfred drolly from the back seat.

"Son of a—" Bruce said softly.

"Oh," Clark mumbled. He scribbled something on the notepad but had no idea what it was. "How did you meet?"

"Which one?" Alfred asked loudly. "Bambi was dancing on the piano one night. Miss LaLa was at some charity event wearing a dress made from a single string and a lollipop."

Clark clenched his jaw and scribbled a little harder on the notepad.

Bruce's eyes darted to Clark and then to the mirror with a hard edge to them. "Alfred, you're my elf, not my press secretary. Thank you, but I can answer this one."

Alfred's reply was whispered under his breath. Clark caught it, but thought it best that Bruce didn't.

"So," he began hopefully. "You were saying. About being married…?"

"I'm not," Bruce said hastily. "Honestly."

"And, um, Bambi and LaLa?"

"Just girls I've been seen in public with. It's expected of me," Bruce said. "Um…" he added as if he realized that the idea sounded bizarre, but didn't know how to fix it.

"So Santa receives a lot of pressure to settle down. How do you cope?"

"Badly!" Alfred shouted as if silence was killing him.

Bruce cleared his throat. "How about you? You have someone special on Krypton?"

"Not at all," Clark said on a whisper. "Just waiting. For the right one. You know."

"Yeah. I know," Bruce answered and then his eyes widened. Clark opened his mouth to ask another question, but the tank came to a sudden halt and ended the whole thing. He couldn't say why, but he was very disappointed that the drive was over.

Disappointment won over scared, too, since they were completely blocked in by those same big, black cars.

"And I thought we'd lost them," Alfred said, almost calmly, as if this kind of thing happened all the time.

Santa Claus, Clark realized, lived a very dangerous life.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

The street was empty of civilian cars here, downtown a distant memory. The city still held on to buildings but they didn't soar to gravity defying heights.

A helicopter circled overhead. Bruce cursed under his breath. Standing in front of the car was a man with a megaphone. His tie and trench coat blew in the wind dramatically. He reminded Bruce, uncannily, of David Duchovny. "Exit the…the…*vehicle* with your hands up," he said.

Bruce rolled his eyes. Then he engaged the cameras. The view on the screens split to eight different angles from around the car. There were sixteen men, dressed much like the man with the megaphone. They didn't look friendly.

"I think I can take them," Bruce said, almost to himself. With that, he undid the seatbelt that looked more like a harness and hit a button. The door slid back and away and Santa stepped out of the tank. The door slid closed again.

"What does he mean 'Take them'?" Clark asked Alfred.

Alfred shook his head. "I rather think he believes he could take on the world and win."

Outside, Bruce was smiling wildly. "Gentlemen," he said, "Merry Christmas."

"It's Santa Claus," one of the men in black said with a goofy expression on his youthful face.

"It's Santa Claus in a tank," another one amended.

"Absolutely," Bruce said. "The reindeer didn't have enough firepower." He had his arms raised, but there was something about his posture that said something about pity for the other guys. Clark guessed he was the only one who could see the small device in his right hand.

"Okay, wiseguy," the young man said, lowering his megaphone at last. "Who else is in the tank?"

"Dasher has shotgun," Bruce said. "Rudolph is in the back."

The man turned red with anger. "Enough with the jokes!" he screamed.

"Is there a problem?" a voice said from behind Bruce. Bruce winced and didn't even bother to turn around.

"I told you to stay in the tank," he said.

The tone was so harsh, so cruel that Clark was taken aback. "I thought I could help…?"

"No, get back in the tank."

"Or don't," said the young man again. He took a step closer to Clark. His eyes never left, as if he were a little girl on Christmas and Clark the pony she'd always wanted.

"We'd like to have a word with _him_," he said at last, pointing at Clark. "You can come with us," were the first words he spoke to Clark. "And as long as your friend here doesn't cause us any trouble, nobody's going to get hurt tonight."

"I'm afraid you're very wrong," Bruce said almost conversationally. "There will be several injuries tonight. You included." He lowered his arms and touched the small device in his hand lightly, just once.

Something launched out of the tank. There was the clanking rattle, rattle of chain against metal. A large ball attached to a line of chain landed on the ground and before anyone could question what it was, it lifted into the air and was swung around by some unseen mechanism in the tank. It took a wide ark and just as it was about to come towards Clark, Bruce tackled him to the ground, landed on top of him.

"Shi—" Bruce started as soon as they hit because it was like trying to tilt a tractor. The rest of the curse was because Clark's glasses had flown off and he was…

He was a different man. No one on Earth had eyes that blue.

And then it was problematic for all sorts of other reasons and Bruce wanted to curse again but no word quite covered how messed up all of this was. Because Bruce didn't believe in sentimental drivel that said things like this could happen. He didn't believe, but it didn't really matter.

Time did that funny thing again. It froze, then flip-flopped then kind of shimmered around them as if to say, "Ahhhh, _there_. Just like that."

They just watched each other and _knew_. For Clark, it was like a gift. For Bruce, it was more of a punch in the gut.

Things happened in those stolen moments. Clark realized that, for the first time, he could _feel_ the heartbeat he'd been listening to all night. Hadn't known he was still listening to, even now. But it was suddenly quite apparent: He'd been as intent on Bruce's heartbeat as he'd ever been on anything in his entire life. Bruce still had that silly beard and that unflattering red suit. And even that didn't matter because the facts were drowned out by what did matter: The thud, thud, thud of Bruce's heart against his. The mingling of their breath in the frigid air. The snow falling steadily on to their faces. This close…

And Bruce, he felt his nerves leap excitedly, like they were welcoming an old friend. It was like his entire body had been roll-started by the contact with Clark who was long and solid, but whose face was kind and open. Clark who was making everything go unclear and soft around him—the world fading away. And the worst of it all was that Bruce didn't want to move. He liked being this close to Clark, liked feeling how pressed together they could get. It was a feeling he could grow accustomed to and that…

That wasn't as terrifying as maybe it should have been.

"No," Bruce said shaking his head vehemently, and pushed up and away from Clark.

"Don't—" Clark said, but it was already too late.

Time stopped shimmering, crashed back into dull working order. "Damn," it seemed to say. "Almost had 'em."

The mechanical mace took out six of the men, then thudded down as if out of steam. And Bruce was already charging at the remainders, steady and uninhibited in his movements. Something went "Crack!" under his feet and maybe there was a satisfied smirk on his face. Ice and snow flew up and fountained down all around him. Two more guys crashed down, one on top of the other like dominoes.

The rest of them were closing in on Bruce. Clark stayed on the ground, watching, confused. He had no idea what he was seeing.

The young agent was shivering as snow began to melt and soak into his clothing. "Don't hurt the big guy!" he screamed at the dredges of his men.

"They're both pretty big, boss."

"Well, don't hurt the bigger guy!"

"Why can't we hurt the not so big guy? He's not the one what who landed here and all."

The young guy looked exasperated. "Because I want to know where he got that tank!"

Bruce sized up the last of the challengers. Then he was a blur of red with a trail of icy breath following behind like a dragon.

"It's a rental," he said and his fist connected with the man's jaw. As the agent's body rolled away from the impact, Bruce caught his arm and kept him swinging with the momentum. The speed and a well-placed foot had him crashing face-first into the street. He let out an oof and joined his friends, sugar-plums dancing through their heads.

A kick, a whirl, a leap like something out of a kung-fu movie and the last three guys got introduced to unconsciousness. Bruce was in the center of an army of fallen toy soldiers, left on the carpet of the playroom. He made a slow circle, surveying the damage he had done. There were going to be quite a few headaches, he decided.

The suit was a little less than spick-and-span now. One baggy red leg was ripped. Clark Kent was standing now, staring at Bruce with a horrified expression on his face.

"Santa, uh, you just beat those men unconscious."

Bruce scratched under the scratchy beard. "They were naughty," he said after a moment's thought. "All year long."

"Okay. I'm not sure what's going on here, but you drive a tank with no reindeer, have a tall, snappish elf with a dry sense of humor, you know kung-fu and I'm pretty certain that beard is fake. You know, I'm beginning to suspect you're not really Santa at all."

"Only _beginning_ to suspect?" asked Alfred, stumbling out of the tank. He kicked it once with feeling as if everything was its fault.

Bruce gawked at Clark and looked disapprovingly at Alfred. Finally, he took the remains of the beard from his face with a firm tug. Clark gasped.

"Oh, come on! The beard wasn't *that* convincing in the first place!" Bruce shouted, arms flapping.

Clark shook his head. He looked like he'd been smacked with the surprise stick. "It's…that is…it's not…I just wasn't expecting…um…" As if realizing that making sense was a lost cause, he cleared his throat and crossed his arms. "So…if you're not Santa, who are you?"

Alfred and Bruce exchanged a look. Alfred lifted one shoulder and his eyebrows.

Finally Bruce looked back to the waiting alien. "I'm Batman," he said, and the rumble was there in his voice. A deep, dark intensity. Clark blinked.

"No you're not," he said.

Now Bruce blinked a few times. "Um…yes I am." The rumble faltered a bit.

"No, you can't be," Clark said matter-of-factly. "Batman's an urban legend."

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

After calling someone to come and take care of the unconscious men before they became agent Sno-Cones, Clark had put his foot down about all of it, saying, "I'm not going a step further unless you tell me what's going on." Sheepishly he'd added, "And I'm hungry. And I haven't had hot chocolate in _forever_." He'd held out the twisted and sad looking remains of his glasses. "And you owe me."

So, over cocoa, Bruce tried to explain. The little café was on the outskirts of town, embraced on either side by designer clothing shops and little stores that sold crystal and decorative jewelry boxes from all around the world. They were greeted by the friendly lady behind the counter who didn't blink at the state of their clothing. She brought them their drinks and a piece of pie for Clark and Alfred, and then quickly disappeared.

Clark licked his lips happily. Bruce looked away.

"So…he's real—uh, you're real—and Santa's not."

"As all the parents of the world say, there's a little Father Christmas in all of us. There certainly is enough of the old boy to go around." Alfred looked self-conscious in his elf suit and finally yanked the hat from his head, miserable.

Following his lead, and apparently hyper aware of his own middle, Bruce wiggled the pillow out from under the grubby red suit and tossed it in the booth next to theirs. "Some people in Gotham hardly believe Batman exists. I'm not surprised that people across the universe are a little confused."

"My boss is going to be floored. He watches your show every week!"

Bruce almost choked on his cocoa. "There's a show?"

"Yeah! 'The Adventures of the Bat-Man!' Only it's set on Kryton instead of Earth. It's pretty good."

Alfred looked from side to side. "Should we be having this discussion here?"

Bruce blinked as if he had never considered there being a problem before. "I own this café," he said.

"This one, too? That brings the total to…"

"Ten?"

"Maybe twelve," Alfred said, rolling his eyes up and to the left, thinking.

"Hello? I'm trying to talk about something important here."

Alfred and Bruce looked at him in surprise. "Sorry," Bruce mumbled.

Clark sighed. "It's okay," he said, poking at his pie. "I guess that conversation from before makes more sense now."

A beat where Bruce and Alfred looked alarmed and then Alfred tried, "What conversation?"

In a perfect recreation of Alfred's voice, Clark said, "But what of patrol?" Then, as Bruce, menacing and untrusting, he answered himself back with, "The mission doesn't stop just because I'm babysitting an alien."

"You heard all of that?" Alfred asked. Bruce was staring at Clark, stone-faced and maybe even angry.

"Alien," Clark said, tapping his ear. He chanced a look at Bruce and what he saw there made him want to apologize, to apologize for being different, for hearing the people pray at the church around the corner, for hearing the sound of someone shivering over a trashcan fire three blocks north.

Bruce looked away and Clark felt it like a slap.

"I'm not so hungry after all," he said at last and pushed his plate away.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

That quiet shopping area became a memory as the streets gave way to narrow lanes with fields of brown grass stretching endlessly ahead on either side. There were no buildings to hide behind, no alleys to duck into.

"Where are we going?" Clark asked.

"Where do you think?" Bruce inquired, but he didn't look at Clark.

"The Fortress of Bats is real?" Clark asked. "Just like in the show?"

Bruce's fingers flexed on the wheel and it looked painful to Clark for anyone to squeeze anything that hard. He refrained from commenting when he saw the set of Bruce's jaw.

"Robin calls it," Bruce said with marked calm, "the Bat Cave and I kind of like the sound of it so…no…with the Fortresses of Anything, okay?"

The road less traveled was the next corner they took. Woods crowded around them, but Bruce never crushed a single tree. Alfred said as much and even managed to say he was proud that Bruce had refrained from "Unnecessary property damage, as you are wont to inflict."

Bruce grumbled all the way to the Cave.

Upon seeing it, Clark declared it was nothing like the TV show.

"The t-rex no one is going to believe," he added. "And the giant penny."

"Souvenirs," Bruce said with a shrug. "For Robin."

"For Robin? The Boy Wonder?" Clark said and almost looked like he wanted to reach for his notepad.

"The show got that right, huh?"

"Yes! He's not in every episode, but he's there. Um. Can I meet him?"

"Of cour…um…yes," Bruce said and looked completely confused by his own ineloquence. And they were staring at each other again.

Alfred cleared his throat loudly, announced that he refused to dress like Ernie Keebler any longer, and stormed up the stairs with the air of a man very fond of efficiency.

Bruce humored Clark's excited request and together they toured the Cave. Clark noticed an ease about the way they walked side by side, a lack of restraint in the way they looked at each other.

Bruce answered questions with what he thought was a dangerous degree of honesty, but every time he tried to stop himself, answers kept falling out of his mouth.

"Robin's bike," he said and gestured. "Extra suits," he said and gestured again. "Training room."

"Bedroom?" Clark asked and then bit his tongue. He looked up sheepishly from behind his curl and found Bruce looking at him with his mouth open. Finally, it snapped shut.

"Upstairs," he said and pointed weakly at the stairs.

"Can I see upstairs?"

Bruce was still staring so Clark added, "Please?"

Bruce nodded. "We have, you know, dinner planned. Alfred's cooking."

"Dinner's good," Clark said and then marched right past Bruce to the stairs. Midway up when he noticed Bruce wasn't following, he turned back. Bruce was still doing his fish routine.

"Coming?" Clark asked with an eyebrow raised.

Bruce didn't answer. Instead, he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to catch up to Clark. They entered the house together, shoulders brushing as they walked.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Wayne Manor was just like something from an old movie. The walls were dripping with paintings and tapestries. Everywhere Clark looked there were dark woods and rich colors. The ceilings were high and the carpets pristine. The showpiece of the living area was a grand tree dripping with ornaments. The star on the top shimmered gold in the low light. It was an old journalistic cliché to say that the snow outside the windows made it seem as if they were in a snow globe, but Clark couldn't say it wasn't true. It was magical and Wayne Manor felt like a home.

When a young man, about the age of 17, came bounding down the steps, Clark knew that it _was_ a home.

"Hey, Bruce, guess wha—" the boy began. His wild path to the first floor came to a halt abruptly when he caught sight of Clark.

"Hi!" he said at last. "Wow. You're a pretty big guy. Are you from Earth?"

Clark almost choked, sucking down his own surprise.

Bruce patted him on the back. "This is Dick. Robin. Dick, meet Clark."

"Oh, hey, he knows?"

"He knows," Bruce said.

"Cool. Nice to meet you." The pair shook hands, both smiling hugely. Bruce looked like he wanted to stay and watch and run away all at once.

"He's from a planet called Krypton," he said.

"Hmm, maybe Kory mentioned it," Dick said knowingly.

"Kory?"

"Alien princess," Bruce explained. When Clark looked horrified, Bruce just shrugged. "The Justice League…they're special."

"And to think I've been investigating Santa when there are secret societies with alien princesses," Clark mumbled.

Dick laughed loudly and said, "You're a funny guy, Clark. You staying for dinner?"

"I…" he started and stole a glance at Bruce. He felt the heat of that gaze go down his spine, trickle to his toes and then go back the other way. "Yes," he said finally. "Definitely."

The smile Bruce gave him was brilliant. The stare-a-thon was interrupted when Alfred made his grand re-entrance.

When not dressed like an elf, Alfred was a refined-looking man. The black suit he wore showed his perfect posture and bearing.

"That's _much_ better," he said, tugging on his jacket.

Dick slapped him on the shoulder. "Looking good, Al. I miss the little shoes, but what can you do?"

"How droll," Alfred said. He looked to Bruce and Clark. "You will _not_ be dining in that. Go and change at once!" Then he spun on his (perfectly normal) shoes, and stalked into the kitchen. "I will be readying dinner if you should need me. It will be served in one hour!"

They waited until he was out of earshot to laugh.

"I think he really resents the hat," Dick said. He stroked his chin as if in deep contemplation.

"The shoes were worse," Clark argued.

"He has no right to complain: I had to stuff a pillow in my shirt," Bruce grumbled.

But, like a pouting child, he shuffled upstairs to his closet and grabbed a change of clothes for himself and Clark. He picked a dress shirt and sweater that were both a little big for him. He guessed they might fit Clark perfectly. Then he all but ran back downstairs, eager to be back as soon as possible, and uncertain why.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

When asked about his Christmas plans, Dick turned red and mumbled something about a girl named 'Barbara.' He went silent for at least ten minutes after that, face still flaming. Bruce snuck away to the kitchen while Clark grilled Dick about the mystery girl.

Alfred was wearing an apron that said, "Kiss the Cook." He wore it, he said, because Dick had been five when he gave it to him and he hadn't wanted to hurt the boy's feelings. Dick had told him years ago that he didn't have to STILL wear it. This had no effect on Alfred, who still wore it with alarming regularity.

Bruce crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. Alfred ignored him and kept bustling around with pans and spoons and oven mitts and big dishes of food.

"Well?" Bruce asked finally. The question was apparently understood because Alfred put down the casserole. He mirrored Bruce's posture against the opposite counter, crossing his arms, and lifted one eyebrow.

"Well, if you're asking and truly want an honest answer, let me say that it's all very Captain Kirk of you."

"Alfred…"

"But at least he's not blue. Or green. The ladies from that show were always green." The butler shuddered at the thought.

"Alfred, I'm warning you…"

"AND let me say that I think he's a fine gentleman with a good heart and that you could do much worse."

Bruce studied his hands instead of Alfred. "I see," was all he said.

"Do you?" Alfred asked soberly and turned back to his oven.

Bruce couldn't think of a good way to answer, so he turned away, leaving Alfred to his cooking.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Over dinner, much to Alfred's dismay, Clark talked about Krypton. In detail. Talk about Barbara had apparently sparked the conversation.

Dicks's mouth was hanging open. The deliciously prepared ham was not being forked into his mouth. He wasn't blinking.

"Is that legal?" he asked Bruce with an expression on his face that betrayed his hope that it was.

"I-I'm not sure," Bruce admitted. He looked a little glassy-eyed himself.

Alfred cleared his throat, gave up and took a long sip of wine. "I hate to be the one to say it, but perhaps the complicated and _acrobatic_ mating rituals of the Kryptonian race should be saved for another day."

"Aw, man!" Dick protested. "It was just getting good!"

Clark scratched at the back of his head sheepishly. "I guess we do things differently on Krypton."

"I can see that," Bruce said, voice pitched low. "I'd like to hear more. Later."

Clark dropped his fork. When he finally recovered, it was to laugh too loudly and clear his throat. Something like challenge flashed in his eyes. Bruce was so certain he'd seen it that he searched them, trying to find it again. But Clark looked perfectly innocent, which made Bruce even more suspicious.

"You know," Clark said, "your Christmas reminds me a lot of our harvest festivals on Krypton. They're a bit commercial these days, but out in the country, I hear they still celebrate things the old-fashioned way."

"Wow! You have a holiday like Christmas? I guess you're not so different after all," Dick said, scratching his head. He shoveled ham into his mouth and chewed with gusto.

Clark spread his hands as he explained: "I think our worlds are a lot alike in many ways. _We're_ a lot a like, too. Physiologically, there are only a few differences."

Bruce lowered his fork. "Excuse me?" he said. There was an expression on his face like that of a man seeing Big Foot at a K-Mart.

The room seemed to be holding its breath. Everyone but Clark looked like curiosity was about to make their heads explode. Clark was oblivious, it seemed. He broke a roll apart and shoved half of it into his mouth. Everyone watched, waiting for a small, slimy alien to pop from his chest and start singing and dancing on the table. With a top hat.

"So, uh, what's different?" Bruce asked with a forced laugh.

"Oh, nothing major," Clark said with a shrug. He took a big bite of potatoes.

"So, what other Earth holidays are like the ones on Krypton?" Dick chimed in.

"We've got a holiday that's a lot like Halloween. Everyone wants to dress up as Nightwing and Flamebird. They're heroes. Like Batman."

"Cool!"

"Yeah, cool," Bruce said angrily. He slapped his fork down on the table. "Now, seriously: What's different? Do you have…like an extra lung or something?"

"Would anyone care for more vegetables? Dick?"

"I'm good, Al. Tell me more about those heroes, Clark. Nightwing's a cool name. What does he do?"

"Master Bruce, vegetables?" Alfred's voice was almost desperate.

"No," Bruce said, sounding a little too much like Batman. His voice brightened falsely. "Come on, Clark! I mean…it's not _external_ is it? Like a tail or…a growth…? Nothing's _missing_, right?"

"You're really fixating on this," Clark said at last.

"There's dessert," Alfred added, trying one last time to use food to distract.

"No. Dessert. Fixating, you say? Well, I mean…in the interest of science. And universal understanding and…cooperation. And…stuff."

"Stuff? What does that even mean?"

"Be quiet and eat, Dick."

"Aw, man! I'm not _five_, you know!"

"Bruce, be reasonable. I didn't think you'd want to discuss the ugly details at dinner," Clark said, eyebrow lifted as if by a crane. He took a slow sip of water. Bruce couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about his demeanor, but he absolutely _knew_ that Clark was enjoying this.

"Ugly?" Bruce repeated. "So you're _deformed_ by our standards?" he said with dawning horror. "Dear Lord."

"Not deformed," Clark corrected. "It's not even a big deal. I just have an extra—"

"AND NOW IT REALLY IS TIME FOR DESSERT!" Alfred shouted. "Master Dick, close your mouth and go get the dessert plates."

There was a delay.

"Now, Master Dick."

"Right, sorry. Um."

Dick hurried from the room while Bruce stared daggers at Clark and Clark continued to look as if he'd won the lottery. "I _will_ get you back for this," Bruce said in a whisper so low only Clark could hear. The smile took a running leap off Clark's face and landed smoothly on Bruce's, only with a lecherous tilt.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

After dinner, they retired to one of the many rooms in the house. This one had a large television with dozens of black boxes under and around it. Clark listened to Dick explaining every last one of them with a flurry of teenaged enthusiasm. Then he found "It's a Wonderful Life" on and claimed he could _always_ find it without fail and that it was possibly a superpower. He said he planned on asking Kory about it.

Then they all settled down, Clark beside Bruce on the couch, knees bumping in the darkened room.

They watched George run through the streets, in love with his life again.

The sound of the doorbell was a surprise. Alfred and Bruce exchanged a look. Alfred went to a discreet panel in the wall and hit a button. A monitor was hidden behind the panel. It showed a pristine view of the front door of the manor. Two police officers flanked a thin, striking bald man in a very expensive coat. It was as if nothing would ever dare to get dirt on it.

He blew on his gloved hands, stomped his feet, and then knocked again.

"Luthor," Bruce said with dismay.

"As in Lex Luthor? The mogul?" Clark asked.

"I could think of other choice words to describe him," Alfred sneered.

"Are we really gonna answer that?" Dick asked, eyes wide.

"I guess we have to," Bruce said. "Clark, you stay here. I trust Luthor about as much as…well, no, I don't trust him at all."

As a united front, Alfred and Bruce advanced on the door. Bruce paused several steps before Alfred who opened the wreathed door with a refined flourish.

"Master Bruce, we have a bald caroler at the door."

Luthor went a shade paler. "Hello, Brucie. Alfred," he said, as if the name were a curse.

"Ah, I was mistaken about his being a caroler. Mr. Luthor. What a surprise."

"I notice you didn't say 'pleasant surprise,'" Luthor said.

Alfred's smile grew larger and more insincere. "No. No, I didn't, did I?"

Luthor snarled, then directed his attention to Bruce, just behind Alfred's shoulder. "Happy holidays, Lexie, you scamp, you!" Bruce said as he stepped forward to stand beside Alfred. "Would you and your armed entourage like some eggnog? I promise: It's spiked."

"No thank you, Brucie. We're here on business." Luthor's eyes narrowed. "I hate to cut to the chase so soon, but since you seem intent on leaving us in the cold, I'll make an exception. Witnesses at Darcy's saw you, dressed as Santa Claus, in the company of an alien. Also, sixteen very unhappy associates of mine saw you headed for Wayne Manor together. In a suspicious _vehicle_."

Bruce waited three seconds and then burst out laughing. Luthor scowled at him for the first minute of unbridled laughter. Then scowled even harder for the second.

"E.T. phone home?" Bruce said at last, eyes watering. "Alfred, have you seen any little green men?"

"Not at all, Master Bruce."

Luthor's color was up. The snow that landed on his shining head melted immediately. "Charming, Bruce. Really. No, the alien that crash-landed was a rather large man." Luthor paused and his eyes went wide. "THAT large man, to be precise."

"What large man?" Bruce asked, looking over Luthor's shoulder at the snow outside.

"Not behind me! Behind you!" Luthor shouted and flapped his arms wildly.

Bruce whirled around and there was indeed a large man behind him. He hadn't realized before, but Clark really was very, very tall and broad. And Clark really had a bad habit of having a mind of his own. Bruce sighed and shook his head. Clark shrugged.

Alfred slinked away as Clark came to stand beside Bruce. Luthor almost took a step back. Fascination and fear were warring for control of his strong face.

"You mean Clark?" Bruce asked, turning back to Luthor with artfully constructed confusion on his face.

"Yes, I mean _Clark_! He's not from Earth! Luthorcorp satellites had a lead on your ship until it suddenly fell off the radar. But we'll find it again and when we do, you're going to have a lot of questions to answer, 'Clark,' if that IS your real name!"

Clark was intimidated, and how that could be Bruce didn't know. Yet his smooth brow was wrinkled in worry.

Bruce, however, looked extremely surprised. His eyes went, appropriately, the size of flying saucers. "Spaceships and radar. Are you hiding something from me, honey?" he asked as his arm went around Clark's shoulder, pulled him close. Clark barely schooled his shock with a playful smile. But a heartbeat later and his arm came around Bruce's waist, still a little uncertain, but warming to the game. His fingers flexed against the muscle when Bruce leaned back against him.

"Very funny," Clark said with levity he didn't feel. "I'm an open book. You know that, sugar." Clark leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Bruce's temple. His lips lingered there for a moment, breath ghosting over Bruce's face.

For a pair making a show of being comfortable with each other, Luthor noticed that the kiss turned Bruce's stupid smile into something serious and hungry. It took several seconds for the smile to slide back into place. And there was something about the whole exchange that rang of one-upmanship. It was as if the two were daring each other to push the PDA envelope to the limit.

Luthor sputtered and turned to the officers behind him. "I demand that you make him accompany us for questioning! He's not even human!" The officer on the left looked uncertain. The one on the right looked very interested in the goings on before him. Clark noticed that his heart rate was accelerated. He suspected that the officer had a thing for dark haired guys.

Bruce gave a sultry laugh. "Well, he can certainly _do_ some_ inhuman _things," he said, eyebrows waggling. "If you know what I mean." His fingertips walked their way up Clark's shoulder, along the side of his face, and then up higher where they twirled strands of Clark's hair teasingly.

Luthor's face went from shock to disgust as Clark turned his head to nip at the fingers with his white, white teeth. "B-B—" Luthor tried but words failed him as the pair rubbed noses.

"You're such an animal!" Bruce all but giggled.

"Only for you!" Clark giggled back and dropped his head to Bruce's shoulder.

Luthor was the color of a mistletoe berry. "Bruce! Tell me this is a joke. You're not…making whoopee with this alien!"

Bruce's eyes narrowed and his smile went sharp. "Whoopee," he said as his other hand settled on the waistband of Clark's pants and then slid up—under the shirt, higher, bunching the fabric—"doesn't even *begin* to describe it."

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

They waited several minutes after Luthor left to laugh. And laugh.

And laugh.

"Did you see his face?"

"Like he'd swallowed poison!"

Even Alfred had a small chuckle at the sight of the bald man stomping away down the walkway, angry at the world for not letting him have his way.

After the tears were wiped away, Clark and Bruce shared a look and seemed to come to a decision. When Clark turned to walk back to where Dick was waiting for them, it was with Bruce's hand at the small of his back, guiding him, letting him know that he wasn't alone. Not tonight.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Dick slipped away first. With his helmet under his arm, he grinned like a man with high expectations, hugged Bruce quickly, shook Clark's hand, and then rushed for the door. "Merry Christmas!" he tossed over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

Next, it was Alfred's turn.

With his coat over his arm and his hat held carefully between his gloved fingers, Alfred stood before the door leading to the garage and bowed his head once. There was a flower in his suit lapel. He looked far from the butler he was; he looked a gentleman about town.

Clark smiled mischief. "You look like you have a date."

"Most certainly, I do," Alfred said.

"Who's the lucky lady?" Bruce asked, one eyebrow suggestive.

"A gentleman never humors such questions, nor does he _ask_ them," Alfred said reprovingly. His back straightened even more, which should have been impossible. Over those sharp shoulder he slipped his dark black coat. The hat completed the image and he was suddenly Bogart and Cagney and Grant all in one. "Do not wait up, as they say. I wish you both the merriest of Christmases. Master Clark, it was a pleasure. Now, if you gentlemen require nothing else," he started, but never finished.

He stepped outside into the snow.

The door closed.

They were alone at last. Silently, the pair moved into the kitchen. Clark poured himself a hot chocolate, expertly prepared and simmering on the stove by Alfred. Bruce had coffee.

"Would you like the tour?" Bruce asked.

Clark looked questioningly at Bruce. "But I've already seen the cave."

"Not the cave," Bruce said. He finally looked up from his coffee. "The mansion."

"That would be nice." Clark's voice was softly hopeful.

As one, the two of them stood and walked the restive mansion. Every room was lush and well-kept. There were Christmas decorations strung everywhere the eye could see. "She was beautiful," Clark said of Bruce's mother. The portrait itself was something you might expect to find in a museum.

"Thank you. The portrait helps me remember them. Sometimes I forget."

"Your father was very handsome, too," Clark said. "You look like him."

And it was a clumsy compliment, but Bruce took it with a smile.

"Is it for them? Why you do what you do?"

Bruce frowned. He didn't seem to know how to answer the question. "It started out that way. They were taken from me when I was very young. But now," he shrugged, "it's who I am."

Clark looked again from the painting to the man at his side. As ready as he was ever going to feel to make the gesture, he put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Upstairs?"

Bruce nodded. "Yes."

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Upstairs was just as grand. There was a door slightly parted and Clark peeked inside when Bruce explained, "Dick's room."

There were posters on the wall and even a stuffed Batman doll on the dresser. When Clark made a joke, Bruce replied shortly with, "From Oracle. She thinks things like that are funny."

He found he wanted to meet her very much. There was an expansive library filled with books that had been taken care of meticulously. The book on the table near the window was "A Christmas Carol."

"Never read it before," Bruce admitted. "Thought I'd give it a try."

"It's the one with the ghosts, right?"

"Yes. But it has a happy ending."

"Good Christmas stories all have happy endings. Except for the one with the match girl," Clark said. He looked away, realized he really didn't care about the book or even he library no matter how wonderful it was. "Next?"

Bruce led him out off the library and down the hall. They went past portraits and awards, and vacation pictures with Alfred looking proud with a fish in his hand. Sensations were cataloguing themselves in Clark's mind. The soft carpet beneath his feet; the smell of polished wood from the molding; the tick, tick, tick of a clock he couldn't see. Even the sound of the house settling on its old, majestic bones was a memory to him.

They went through the door and Clark let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The room was the biggest they'd been in so far. The decorations were Spartan, but everything had strength and grace, from the four-poster bed to the fainting couch along one wall. The curtains were just the right weight for winter and must have hidden an amazing view of the manor grounds. The tiniest trickle of light came from where one wasn't closed all the way.

The greatest thing in the room was to the left of the door.

Clark gave a pleased laugh. "You have a tree in your bedroom!"

Bruce shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "Alfred would have one in every room of the house if he thought I'd let him get away with it."

"Its nice," Clark said. He seemed distracted. His eyes kept darting to the giant bed on the other side of the room. With what looked like effort, he walked to the tree.

He studied it and its tiny white lights and classy glass ornaments. "I like your house, Bruce," he said.

"Thank you. I…I'm glad."

"I was supposed to give this to Santa," Clark added and smirked. "But under the circumstances, I think I should give it to you." He pressed a button on that amazing watch of his and a tiny fleck of dust floated up. It hovered over Clark's cupped hand, casting gold light on his face, making him look like a bronze statue with how perfect and clean his features were. Like catching a firefly, he covered one hand with the other and the light pushed past his fingers.

Then he lifted his hand away to reveal a golden ball the size of a small pumpkin or a large apple. A glittering red ribbon was looped and tied at the top. The surface was etched with elaborate swirls and swoops, like snow dancing in the wind.

Bruce shook his head, a small gesture. "What is it?"

"A souvenir from Krypton." Gingerly, Clark placed it in Bruce's outstretched hand. Bruce turned it this way and that, admiring the deep golden color and the mysterious light. After a moment, the intensity of the glow lessened, but the ball stayed just as lovely.

"It's beautiful," Bruce admitted.

"It's Krypton," Clark said. When Bruce looked confused, Clark said, "Turn it the other way. No, not like that. Twist it more to the…hmmm."

Finally, he stepped closer. "Um, see, you're looking at it wrong," he stuttered. Two steps brought him behind Bruce. His arms went over Bruce's shoulders from behind. "Is it…okay?" he asked. He was close enough that his breath tickled Bruce's ear.

"Yes," Bruce said hoarsely. His body was still, but his heart wasn't.

"Okay. Um. Like this," Clark said. Holding Bruce's hands in his own, he shifted them until the golden ball was at a new angle. Bruce gasped. The ball was translucent at this angle and inside it was a city like nothing on Earth. Crystal towers soared and sleek crafts whizzed through the air around them.

The image sharpened.

It was snowing on Krypton, perfect fat flakes and he could almost feel the wind slipping around his shoulders and tousling his hair. The air was crisp and the sound of carolers singing in an unfamiliar language reached his ears. The world inside the ball was so minute and detailed that Bruce could see a Christmas tree through the window of a magnificent building at the heart of it all.

And then they were standing together on the wide, swept thoroughfare. Clark was still behind him, holding him, guiding him. The sky was pristine daylight and Bruce squinted up at the soaring tower.

"That's my building. I work there," Clark said. His breath painted the air wispy white. People rushed passed them, knocked them into one another.

"We can buy the most delicious bread there," he said, turning Bruce another way. "That park blooms with blue flowers in the spring. If you go two blocks that way, you can see the library."

Clark's arms were a heavy weight on Bruce's shoulders. And he was so warm and solid, like a wall, that Bruce wanted to lean back against him. Suddenly, he turned and faced Clark. He wasn't imagining the fingers that curled around his neck.

Just as quickly as a light switching off, they were in the mansion again, just the two of them. So close. This close.

"Thank you," Bruce said. "I think I'll put it on _this _tree."

"Yeah." Clark nodded. Bruce could have said, "The ocean is made of lint," and Clark would have agreed. He was distracted. Very.

"Can I move?" Bruce asked. It took a minute, but Clark nodded again. He lowered his arms, releasing Bruce who stepped closer to the tree. As if compelled, Clark followed. With one long arm, Bruce reached up and settled the ornament onto a branch. For as heavy as it had felt in his hand, it didn't make the bough sag. He admired it for a second, then looked away. At Clark, who was returning the look.

In one smooth motion, he lowered his hand—

Onto Clark's shoulder. He slid it up towards the tempting curve where neck met collarbone. "You should stop me," he said.

"I should?"

"Yes. If you want me to stop, now would be a good time to say so."

"I'm not stopping you."

"Good," Bruce hissed. The hand at Clark's shoulder rounded around the back of his neck, gripped tighter and pulled. No resistance, assistance from Clark. Arms around Bruce's lower back, making closer an understatement. And tongue for the first kiss was maybe tasteless, but…

Neither man really cared. Time ground to a halt.

There was that nudge at Clark's stomach that told him this was good. It was a bit like being punched by lust. And something else. Something more.

Going slow was the last thing he wanted. Clark's hands dropped lower, got a handful of the ass he'd been admiring and then thrust, held, and then ground in.

Bruce's mouth fell open so that he was completely useless for the kiss. He just panted against Clark's lips, held on, pushed back.

Clark pulled away to nip at Bruce's ear, lap at his neck. "Come on, touch me," he whispered.

"A little distracted," Bruce managed. His voice went high when Clark bit his earlobe, but both men pretended not to notice because The Batman did not yelp.

"Okay, yeah," Clark said. And like the gentleman he was, his hands slid back up to Bruce's back and all the delicious but dangerous thrusting and grinding stopped. Bruce could think again, but he kind of missed the on-the-edge-of-coming sensation he'd been enjoying. The only good part of the deal was that now he could do a little damage of his own.

"Better?" Clark asked teasingly, the bastard.

"Yeah, thanks," Bruce answered back sarcastically. "But I think we should be naked."

"Good idea," Clark agreed.

Bruce ran his hands under Clark's borrowed sweater and the button down that was under that. His hands went up in broad swipes and then narrowed in.

"But first," he breathed, "about those physiological differences." He pinched then rubbed, fingers tingling over the buds that were Clark's nipples. "These seem the same. Does it feel good?"

"Yes," Clark bit off.

Bruce's hands took a downward path. The fingers of one hand went into the waistband of Clark's pants. The other hand kept sliding down until Bruce cupped Clark—already hot and hardening—just over the fly. Clark hissed through his teeth.

"This feels the same, too," Bruce said and squeezed. Then he squeezed again. He turned it into a steady rhythm and Clark clung to his shoulders, gripping too tight.

Bruce smiled, did what he was doing more, harder, longer. "No differences here. Were you lying to me?"

"Yes," Clark said, his voice was husky, lost. "Mostly."

Bruce's strokes faltered. "Okay…mostly?"

"There are a few differences: I'm faster," he began and Bruce found his arms pinned to his sides, had no idea how. "I'm stronger," Clark added and Bruce's legs were forced apart by a muscular thigh.

"Damn," Bruce cried out and clutched at anywhere he could of Clark, just trying to keep his balance, even though he knew Clark would never let him fall.

"Oh, and I can fly," Clark finished. The room and air and light whizzed by Bruce's head and he knew it was only seconds but he felt like there was this delay, looking at Clark, waiting for the world to catch up with them because, yeah, they were light years ahead of anyone else, riding so far on the wave of this thing between them that nothing—

nothing—

nothing had a chance in hell of stopping them.

Until the bed did. And Clark still wasn't very good at landing, but that was okay because Bruce had a giant bed and it was soft, curled up around them a little like a hug. Crashing had never felt so good. They rolled once, twice, and Clark got his hands on either side of Bruce's head, pushed their hips together. He looked triumphant until he found himself flat against the overstuffed pillows with a whole lot of Bruce squirming against him.

"You left a hole in my city," Bruce said, wiggling a hand between them to undo Clark's belt.

"I said 'fly,' I didn't say 'land.'" Bruce smirked at that and the sound of Clark's zipper sliding down punctuated that expression.

"Off," Bruce said as he yanked Clark's pants down his legs.

And Clark was wearing boxer briefs, so that answered that question.

Clark toed off his shoes, kicked his hips up, and wiggled a little to help. He felt 18 all over again and started laughing. He jerked his sweater off and all but tore off the shirt. "You too," he said.

"Yeah, yeah," Bruce mumbled, then pulled off his shirt. There was a beat when Clark just stared, then he moved again, too fast for Bruce to catalogue. But he exhaled loudly—shock and want coming out in gusts like winter wind—when his back hit the bed again. "Pushy," he said.

"Mmm," Clark agreed and started touching. Bruce had a little dent of a bellybutton and shoulders like knotted cords with skin stretched over them. The veins of his arms were like roadmaps of greenish blue, too stark against his skin, just right.

Bone poked out here and there, tendons flexed at his wrists as he watched Clark watch him, touch him. The touches were so light they tickled. And Clark didn't dwell on the scars though he skipped the red scratches and circumnavigated the bruises.

He didn't gasp when he saw the one on his shoulder the color of a banana dotted with purple. He didn't grimace at the shallow canal that ran from his naval all the way to his nipple.

He didn't ask about them, merely kept touching like he'd won the lottery and wanted to count the money again and again.

"You're not surprised," Bruce said. And maybe he wasn't ashamed of them or even self-conscious. Or maybe he hated them, regretted them, wished he didn't have to see them in the mirror everyday. Clark didn't know and was certain he never would.

So he tried to answer, but looked a little sheepish. "I'm a nice guy, but I'm no saint," he said.

"What does that mean?" Bruce rolled into a touch as soft as satin up his side, liking the feel of fingers fitting into the grooves of his ribs.

"Um. I peeked. After you took off the beard I guess I figured, 'No holds barred.'"

"You peeked?" Bruce parroted.

"Yeah. X-ray vision: _Way_ useful."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "So this is on top of the strength and the speed and the flying?"

"Uh, yeah. There's a perfectly scientific explanation for it. I promise. And you know," he laughed, "I used to think flying was cooler."

"But now?"

"X-ray vision wins hands down," Clark said and dropped down to take a mouthful of nipple, work one with his tongue and then switch to the other. Then his tongue was at Bruce's breastbone, just the tip teasing. Hot breath hit the wet trail and it was too many sensations to process. Bruce felt like he was drowning in them. Then that tongue was diving into his bellybutton and Bruce thrust up a little, bit his lip when Clark sucked at the skin, then moved even lower.

The button on his slacks was undone with remarkable slowness. Clark taking his time, savoring every moment.

"Is there anything you can't do?" Bruce asked a little breathlessly as he lifted for Clark to slide his slacks and boxers down his legs. The shoes hit the floor with a thud, thud. The pants followed after with a rustle.

"Nothing comes to mind," Clark said and swallowed him down.

It was wrong to take advantage of what Clark was, but he knew he couldn't hurt him. So he dug his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Clark's neck and went with what felt good.

Clark worked his mouth and tongue and throat. He wasn't teasing. He wasn't warming up. He was using every trick he knew to make a man come almost instantly. It was all too much, like Clark wanted to hear him lose control _now_. Bruce tugged on Clark's hair, tried to get his attention that way. Finally, he forced his mouth to move.

"Too soon," he said brokenly.

Clark pulled off, coughed softly and then nuzzled at Bruce's stomach. He licked once at the salt and sweat. "Yeah, okay. Slower."

He reached up and jacked Bruce lazily. Their eyes caught and Bruce licked his lips. "My turn," he said. He didn't have super speed, but he gave Clark a run for his money.

On his back, Clark squirmed. "Bruce, are you…?"

"Shhh," Bruce said, crawling backwards. He lowered his head, ran the tip of his tongue over the head of Clark's hard cock. He wanted to ask if _this_ was a benefit of being an alien too, but thought it was a little tasteless. "Physiological differences," he mumbled, instead.

Then he wrapped his lips around the head and showed Clark how they did things on Earth. Clark dug his fingers into the mattress, forced himself not to touch Bruce. Who was sliding down his shaft with a determined expression on his face. He dropped his mouth, and went lower, swallowed. Almost gagged, because, no, this wasn't easy, not with Clark's size. But he loved it. Loved making Clark—

"Bruce!" Clark screamed.

—Yes. _Scream_.

And Clark was thinking that it wasn't fair that Bruce had just fought him about this, only to play hypocrite and bring Clark to the same point, too fast, too intense.

Bruce knew. Didn't care. He ran his hands up and down Clark's thighs, hummed low in his throat and tongued the base.

Clark bit his lip and his fingers tore through the fabric of the mattress. Springs poked his fingertips.

And Bruce just swallowed and swallowed while Clark thought he was dying in the best way possible.

"Not fair," Clark panted at last. Bruce crawled up his body, licked a line from his nipple to his neck. "Mmm, you're right. You know what they say about payback."

Clark guffawed. It was so loud and uninhibited that Clark thought that the best word for it. Then he kissed Bruce, spread his legs so that Bruce fell between them and his erection brushed right behind his balls. Bruce dropped his head, moved his hips, once, twice, imitating a motion. Showing Clark what he wanted.

He stopped, lifted up, looked Clark in the eye. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Clark said and bucked up against him. "And I promise you: The process is the same."

"Hmm," Bruce said. He lifted away long enough to rifle through the bedside drawers. He fumbled the bottle—nervous like a damn kid—caught it before it went under the bed, and then slid back to lie beside Clark. He propped up on his elbow.

"Smooth move," Clark said.

"Your English is really too good for your own good," Bruce said. He uncapped the bottle, drizzled a portion onto his fingers.

"I was a good student."

"Mmm, hmmm," Bruce said. He walked his fingers over Clark's thigh, tapped each one once, and waited while they slid further apart and his knees bent. Clark was already hardening again and Bruce used the slick to stroke him a few times, watching his face.

Then he shifted to kneel between Clark's legs, tangling the blankets up as he went. He sat up on his knees, leaned forward. He moved his hand from Clark's inner thigh, down, down, leaving a trail of shine. Bruce came to a halt, swallowed.

"Okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

He worked his middle finger in, up to the first knuckle. And Clark was up on his elbows, looking down his long torso at Bruce.

Who went deeper.

Bruce watched him, studied how he reacted, tried to gauge how much he could take how fast. He pushed in, pulled out, did it faster, then slower. Clark writhed on the sheets and bucked to fuck himself on the finger.

Bruce smiled. Clark was falling apart and he loved it. With one finger he was making Clark twist.

Beg.

Clark was a powerful man. He was all muscle and every line of his body radiated an indefinable energy. Having this much strength turn weak at his fingers made Bruce feel drunk.

He added another finger. Twisted.

Clark bit his lip, dropped his head back.

"Bruce," he groaned. "Fuck me."

And Clark's English really was very, very good. Bruce bit his lip to stop his body's reaction to Clark's words.

"Yeah," he said at last. He braced his arms on either side of Clark, angled his hips. When Clark's hand came down, held him and guided him, Bruce whispered encouragements. "Yeah, like that. Come on."

"Bruce…"

"I've got you."

The head popped through and both men cursed, Clark a little more loudly. They waited, as if they had all the time. Bruce's hair painted sweat across Clark's belly. Clark left tingles down Bruce's arms where he rubbed the straining muscles.

Their eyes met.

Clark swallowed. Nodded.

"I want you," Bruce admitted, staring into those eyes.

"Yes, Bruce, I—"

"Shhh."

From there, they moved slowly, Clark sliding his body and tilting his hips, Bruce inching forward. Clark's stomach was leaping with the strain his muscles were taking and his body was dripping with sweat like he'd been running in the desert sun.

Finally, Bruce was seated and he lowered his head to Clark's chest. Clark's cock was hot where it was pressed between their bodies and Clark found that if he jerked his hips forward, it created delicious friction, slicked Bruce's belly with come. And moved Bruce inside him maybe more than he was ready for.

He hissed through his teeth when Bruce licked the skin nearest his mouth, slid his hands through the sweat on Clarks' body; up his legs, to his ribs and then one up to his neck while the other stroked his chest. The touches were a question that Clark answered with, "Come on, I'm ready."

Bruce lifted up to his elbows again. With his eyes on Clark's, he rolled his hips back, made a noise deep in his throat, and then rolled them forward. Gently, like a wave on the beach.

He kept that rhythm until Clark reached up, stroked his face and whispered, "You can't hurt me."

It all changed then.

Bruce lost the kid gloves. He had trained his body to be a machine and he took Clark like he'd never tire of it. Like it was what he'd been built to do.

On each stab in, Clark dug his fingers into Bruce's ass, held him in for longer and longer moments, liked the feel of being filled up by all of Bruce's passion.

Hot inside him. Thick and plunging.

Clark became aware that he was babbling. When he could focus on the words, they were, "Don't stop! Yes! There! I want you, don't stop, never stop!"

But he was saying them in Kryptonian.

Bruce must have thought it was funny because he smiled. Then he fucked him harder.

Then slowed just as it seemed Clark was about to explode with the most intense orgasm of his life.

"Damn," he cursed. "Come on…"

"Patience," Bruce said. He kept him on the edge like that for so long Clark thought he would go crazy with it, his body on a rollercoaster and Bruce in control. Finally, he _needed _to come.

He got one hand in between their bodies, grabbed his cock and fisted it. He went even hotter when he realized Bruce was watching him. Seemed to like watching him jerk himself off.

"Yeah," Bruce said. He brought their mouths close together and they only touched in a broken rhythm as Bruce's thrusts brought them together. Each kiss was synchronized with their bodies moving together.

"Come with me," Bruce said.

And Clark did. He was aware of the wet heat inside him, of Bruce cursing and thrusting through his own orgasm, like he couldn't stop claiming Clark even then.

Fireworks. Trains through tunnels. Waterfalls splashing down dramatically. It was all that and more and Clark went lightheaded with it, wondered if he'd ever move again.

When his vision returned, Bruce was staring at him thoughtfully. His brow was creased, as if with confusion or worry. Then he lifted up, kissed Clark so intensely that Clark felt raw as his mouth became like a conquered city, felled by the power of a kiss.

Bruce pulled away, stared at Clark for long moments, then settled onto his back beside Clark.

"Earth style is good," Clark said after a moment, chest rising and falling, sweat catching the trickle of light through the curtains on every deep breath in.

Bruce rolled until his body from chest to knee was pressed against Clark's side. Every breath he took brushed one of his budded nipples against Clark's upper arm. When he swallowed, the muscles of his neck pushed against Clark's shoulder only to retreat. Again and again, like Bruce couldn't stop swallowing the taste of Clark, couldn't stop wanting the burn of him at the back of his throat.

They drifted off that way, the blankets and sheets and their bodies all tangled up, confused at the beginning of one and the end of the other. After an hour of sleep, Bruce yanked Clark from his dream with his hand, steady stripping Clark's cock. "Aren't you tired?" Clark asked, laughed softly.

"Are you?"

"No," Clark said and was surprised that it wasn't a lie. He felt refreshed. He imagined it was what a jigsaw puzzle felt like when the last corner piece of a sunrise finally, perfectly, slid into place.

"Good." Bruce said and leaned in close to Clark's neck. "Come on, show me how you do it back home."

Clark swallowed, nodded and made way on the bed for Bruce. Who rolled onto his back and spread his legs. "This way?"

"Yeah," Clark said. His throat was still so dry, no matter how much he swallowed. It was like the heat from whatever this was between them burned up everything around them. "I want to see you."

And it was what Bruce wanted, too. But he couldn't say it.

Clark was the opposite of Bruce, not afraid to be as rough or gentle as needed. Perhaps it was that his senses were so sensitive that he was attuned to every sound Bruce made, every shudder of his body or leap in his heart rate. So attuned that he was like a skilled musician playing a beautiful violin. Bruce's stifled gasp told him to pull back, twist his hips. Bruce's fluttering stomach muscles let Clark know that he could stop holding back and give it to Bruce as hard as he needed it.

As hard as it had to be to make him scream. Just. Like. That.

And Bruce tried to be quiet, failed. His body sang.

They came together and fell back to Earth hard. Clark went to the side quickly, trying not to crush Bruce, but his arm stayed draped over his chest.

A minute went by.

Two.

Their breathing evened out.

And Bruce said into the darkness, "Okay, you win: Krypton does it better."

Clark laughed, squirmed until he could wrap his arms around Bruce. He promised that he'd explain the unfair advantage of the visiting team in more detail later. "The bed's a mess," he said.

"The bathroom's too far."

"Not really," Clark said. To him, Egypt wasn't too far. China or Peru. But holding Bruce felt pretty good. He guessed he didn't mind if Bruce didn't.

When it came to Bruce, he felt accommodating. Very.

Outside, Christmas Eve faded away into Christmas Morning, but the dark was just as deep.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Later, Bruce gently touched Clark's hair. That expression from before was back, too serious.

Propped up on one elbow, looking down at him, he felt oddly protective. And since Clark could crash land to Earth without a scratch, he knew he was in trouble. He couldn't tell if the alien had fallen asleep or not. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out on, "You can't stay, can you?"

Clark didn't answer at first. Maybe he was pretending to be asleep, or maybe he didn't know how to answer without awkwardness. Finally, he looked up at Bruce with one eye closed. "Um…no. I have to go back."

"When?"

"Eleven days."

"Oh. Epiphany," Bruce said lamely.

"Yes. My boss was very specific. Um…did I mention he's obsessed with this story? My ship's repairing itself now. It should be, anyway. If it's not ready by Epiphany, I can stay a little longer but…"

"How long does it take a ship to fix itself?"

Clark didn't want to admit that his ship was probably already on the finishing touches. He shrugged instead. The motion rolled their shoulders into one another and it was still there, that tingle when they touched.

Bruce flopped onto his back and said nothing more. Clark drummed his fingers on his stomach and stared at the ceiling. He cleared his throat. "I can come back," he said brightly. "I've been here lots of times."

Bruce sounded curious. "What was your last visit?"

"England," Clark said and laughed. "Everyone talked like Alfred! My assignment was…let's see…Oh, right: I interviewed Margaret Thatcher when she took office. That was, what? Five years ago. So, it's not so bad."

Bruce went very still. It lasted so long that Clark got worried. "Um…Bruce?"

"Five years ago?" Bruce choked on a laugh. "Margaret Thatcher? That was almost _thirty_ years ago."

Clark shifted and swallowed a few times. "I forgot: Time works differently on Krypton." Clark almost expected Bruce to scoff at the understatement, to chide him about it. What he got was nothing that stretched on and on like ribbon candy.

"I see," Bruce said after over a minute of silence. "Go to sleep Clark."

"Bruce…"

"Go. To. Sleep."

Clark wanted to touch him, to say something that made this okay. He lifted his hand, brought it so close to Bruce's shoulder that he was certain Bruce could feel the heat of his almost touch. He pulled back and settled onto the bed.

"Merry Christmas, Bruce," he said on a whisper. Bruce didn't answer back.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

The next morning neither of them mentioned Clark returning to Krypton. It was as if the conversation from the night before hadn't even happened.

Instead, their time was spent lazily making love whenever they felt like it, wherever they felt like it.

On or beside the bed.

In the shower.

On the stairs to breakfast.

In the kitchen, Bruce arched like a bow up against the counter, glasses of juice and milk spilling over everything.

On the soapy kitchen floor, mop handle poking Clark in his side while Bruce reminded him of how good he was with his mouth, if not always words.

And it was all okay because the house was empty, silent, a place just for them.

"You gave me a present," Bruce said. He was leaning in the doorway, looking at the snow fall through the windows just beyond the Christmas tree. He was, in his opinion, standing too close to Clark. Too close because he still wanted to touch him. Bruce was starting to realize that across the room was still too close to Clark. There was no real safe distance.

"Um, yeah," Clark agreed. He was holding his hands stiffly at his sides, as if he, too, thought proximity a problem.

"Yours is under the tree."

Clark looked flabbergasted. "How in the world did you get me a gift? I've only known you a day and…and a little bit," he said, calculating as he stared at his elaborate 'watch.' Bruce was very suspicious of what all the thing did.

"I'm rich," Bruce said without arrogance. He added a shrug. Clark moved to the tree that dominated the room. "No peeking," Bruce said and gestured to the base of the tree where a soft, squishy present was waiting. It had an elegant, "For Clark," written on the tag. Clark bit his lip like a child and then tore into it. The paper drifted down to the ground.

Clark smiled. He rubbed his fingers over the soft fabric. "Cashmere?" he asked.

"Yes." Bruce moved to stand beside Clark. "I thought it would be better than the sweater from yesterday. I think the color will look good on you." And he was too smooth, too suave. Clark knew he was putting on a show, pretending to be unconcerned.

He decided to shatter that mask. In a deft movement, he pulled his borrowed shirt off and let it drop carelessly to the ground. Then, with forced ease, he slid the sweater on, felt Bruce watching him like a finger down his chest. He straightened the sweater and felt irrepressible triumph: Bruce was staring, all airs forgotten. He was, simply, a man who wanted another man. He pulled Clark close, skated his hands over Clark's present and then under while he kissed him slowly.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes," Clark said. And the sweater was fabulous, but that wasn't what he meant.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

At night, they had a fire, sat and talked, held each other close. Outside the snow was falling and Alfred was calling to say he would not be joining them anytime soon. "Not in this blizzard."

So they stripped slowly in the orange flicker, the slightly smoky haze. Clark's hair stood up messily when his new sweater caught and they laughed and then kissed and then—

Tumbled, rolled on the floor until Bruce was on top, a million ideas flitting across his face.

Clark liked all of them.

They worked each other to breathless orgasm in the heat, on the rug.

Clark fell asleep with a smile on his face, an armful of Bruce, dreamed of snow on Krypton. He didn't feel a blanket draped over his shoulders a few hours later. The kiss on his forehead was a phantom from his dream.

When he woke, it was to the sound of a car roaring to life. His eyes flew open and he looked around. A quick scan up and then all around revealed that the manor was empty. He was dressed and zooming through the cold country air in less than a second.

When he slammed down—hole in the pavement, crackling in every direction—ten feet in front of the car, he wasn't smiling. His breath formed angry serpents in the air, storming from his mouth and nostrils. The car screeched to a halt, rubber burning.

A black figure got out of the black armored car—like nothing Clark had ever seen before—and snow crunched beneath his heavy boots. "Clark," it said.

"Bruce?" Clark whispered. "Are you really…?" he didn't finish because there was no good way to finish that question. His voice and expression showed that somehow he had held on to doubts. He hadn't believed, not really.

"I wasn't lying, Clark. Not about this."

The voice was familiar only…not right at all. Not Bruce's. Not the one that whispered in his ear when they moved together under the sheets, against the wall, anywhere, everywhere. If everything dark and mad and a terrifying in the world could be poured into a barrel, the voice was like the dregs at the bottom.

Clark shook his head and part of the gesture was sadness because _this_ part of Bruce fit and he didn't want it to. This man would never smile or flirt or joke. He was faced with a legend and all he wanted was the man back.

The mask made his eyes lifeless, flat and white. Clark didn't like it.

"Where are you going?"

"Did you forget who I am?"

Clark pulled back. He blinked a few times. When he really considered it, he knew it was true. Yes, he had forgotten the sound of Bruce's fist slamming into someone's cheek, the wicked grin on his face as he pushed the tank to the limit. He'd forgotten that the one man he'd picked to fall for was the stuff of nightmares in his free time.

"I…yes…I think I…maybe I did," he said and his chin jutted out defiantly. "So?"

"_So_, I think it's time you remembered." His cape whipped the wind violently as he stooped to get back in the car.

"Wait." With his hand out, Clark took a step forward, tried to think of something to say. All that came out was, "Take me with you."

Under that cowl, Bruce was frowning. His wide, kissable mouth was working its way into a denial. But when Batman spoke, the gravel and hiss that was his voice said, "Stay out of my way and don't touch anything in the car."

Clark didn't understand that it was a 'Yes' for a minute. But he wasn't a quitter so he made the move to the car despite what sounded like a 'Piss off.' When Batman didn't stop him, he finally deciphered the sentence. It had been the closest thing to compromise that the vigilante was capable of.

Clark sat silently beside him, watched him drive too fast, even in the city.

Tried to figure out who he really was.

And wondered how the hell he was going to tell his editor about all this.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

The first hour of the night was spent skulking about in dives, talking to the working ladies and the hustlers. Clark stayed back while Batman gathered information, threatened or rewarded informants with information of his own. For all that he stood against criminals, he certainly seemed to associate with them a lot.

In the last half of the next hour, Batman caught up with his prey. All the informants had simply called him Bobby and when they found him, Bobby had a man against the wall and had a switchblade to his neck. Three goons guarded his back, looking watchfully from side to side with hungry looks on their faces.

Clark stopped following Batman when the dark figured held up a restraining hand. "This is no place for you," he said. "Stay here."

Clark wanted to argue, but he stayed in the shadows near the mouth of the alley instead. Part of it was reluctance to upset Bruce once again by defying him. The rest of it was knowledge that interfering was pretty easy for him to do if Bruce needed his help.

Silently and deftly, Batman let fly heavy, stylized weapons. They took out two of the goons, but the third had time to duck.

Bobby, meanwhile, yanked the man off the wall and pressed his chest to the man's back. The knife went back to the man's neck while Bobby struggled them backwards. "Oh, ho, Batsy," he chuckled, but Clark could hear the thud, thud of his terrified heartbeat.

And Batman was gone. Just as quickly as he'd swept into the alley, he was no longer there. Clark stared through the wall where he was hiding, anxiously. He almost jumped when Batman dropped from above. A flurry of movement had the third goon down and the captive free.

With wide eyes, the man rubbed at his neck. "I'm f-fine," he stuttered and then looked to Batman, as if looking for instructions.

"Go, Hector. Don't worry, I know where you live."

Hector swallowed convulsively and then all but flew out of the alley.

Batman had Bobby by his sharp collar. The man cried out when his back hit the wall hard enough to make a sound. Clark wondered how he didn't pass out when the back of his head cracked against the brick. He was in the same position Hector had been just minutes before. Batman's eyes were the same, flat slits, but there was something vicious about them. He drew back a fist and punched Bobby hard enough that his lip split and blood oozed down his face.

Batman smiled then, and it was just as vicious as his lifeless eyes.

Clark had seen enough. He sped into the alley and stopped twenty feet away from Batman and the blubbering, begging Bobby.

With his hands out imploringly, Clark cried, "What are you doing?"

"This man," Batman ground out, "is a murderer and one without remorse."

Clark shook his head. "Let the police handle it."

"The police can't touch him. The force is corrupt and the laws protect him. He's slipped through the cracks too many times." He pulled his fist back—

And frowned when it was stopped. Batman looked to the side to see Clark standing right beside him. He lingered on the image of his fist engulfed in one of Clark's large hands. Clark restrained him easily.

More than that, he had moved from one side of the alley to the other in the blink of an eye.

"How did you do that?" Batman whispered. The criminal looked just as shocked. He tried to push himself further into the wall and away from these dangerous men.

"Did you forget what I am?" Clark answered with real venom to his voice.

And under the mask Bruce's handsome face shifted into shock he tried to hide. It was obvious:

He _had_ forgotten. Just as Clark had forgotten that Bruce was another person by night, Bruce had been reveling in a lie. Clark had been so normal, so comfortable that a part of him had forgotten the hole he'd left in the pavement.

The lies they told themselves suspended between them, it was just them again, the world and second hands and minute hands and hour hands very, very still.

Just for them.

They looked at each other and Clark's hand on Bruce's fist was warm and he wanted to move to touch his face instead, to push the cowl away and look into his eyes because Bruce was staring at _him_ because…

He never tired of being the focus of Clark's gaze because Clark looked like spring and because…

Clark wanted to be back in the manor with Bruce, holding him and saying, "I'm sorry," because…

He _was_ sorry because Clark was the best thing to happen to him in a long time and he didn't want him to go at all and because, because, because…

One of the goons forced himself up dizzily on his elbows, wiggled his gun from his belt—

Aimed—

"No!" Clark screamed. Faster than anything Bruce had ever seen before, Clark spun them around. He stood in front of him, looming and so very close. The sound of a gun firing over and over reached his ears just as the image of Clark's face resolved before his eyes.

Ping!

And Clark's eyes were alive and warm.

Ping!

And _Clark_ was warm. Warmer than a fireplace on a cold winter's day. Warmer than the month of July or the fires of hell.

Ping!

And he was looking at Bruce with such worry and care and it _hurt_ to look at him now because Clark shouldn't have to worry. Clark was supposed to write stories and smile and tease.

The gunmen came to his feet unsteadily, hidden in the smoky distance, but all Bruce could see was Clark's eyes—

Nose—

Lips—

"Bruce…"

And then there was the sound of the crushed and ruined bullets hitting the ground. Mere seconds had passed because time hadn't finished doing a number on them. Not yet. Clark looked away first. He twisted around to see his own back.

"Darn." Clark's eyes narrowed. "I _liked_ this sweater," he said darkly.

He didn't move as quickly as he could. Still, sixty feet in the air later, Bobby passed out in his arms, whimpering something about his mother.

He left him unconscious on the hood of a police car. The cops inside froze with coffee and sandwiches to their mouths. They had no idea how to radio in what they'd just seen.

It took all of his concentration to make his landing smooth when he returned to Batman. Never one for inactivity, Batman was slipping through the darkness back to his car. Clark touched down softly in front of him. The cold didn't bother Clark, but he could feel it like icy fingers through the holes in the sweater.

Batman tossed, "Any other physiological differences I should know about?" over his shoulder.

"Maybe," Clark said.

Then Batman turned, leaned back against his car and just looked at Clark. With one gloved hand, he reached up and pushed his cowl back. "I can always get you another sweater," he said.

"But I liked _this_ one."

He took the few steps necessary to be in Bruce's space, to crowd him against the car and let him know that they _were_ going ho—

He flinched and tried to smile.

—back to the manor, whether Bruce liked it or not.

Bruce shook his head and sweat dripping off the ends of his dark hair. "Kiss me. I'll give you all the sweaters you want."

And he was Santa, after all, so Clark believed him.

And kissed him, slowly, like it was the first time all over again. Like all the things they'd forgotten weren't as important as all the things they never could.

*~*~Fa, la-la, la, la — la-la, la, la~*~*

Epiphany

Neither man would say they hadn't wanted the day to come.

They'd spent twelve days of mornings tangled around each other. Twelve nights spent on the street fighting an endless war. Bruce had stopped telling him to stop interfering. To stay in the car. To not ask questions. One day, something had changed and Bruce had given up or given in or just realized that Clark wasn't going to do either himself.

Bruce had never gotten around to thanking him for saving his life. Three times total at the end of it all.

But for twelve days, he'd been very, very generous in the way he kissed, in the way he touched. His fingers and mouth and body said everything well enough, Clark guessed. And he was training himself to stop wanting to hear the things Bruce would never say.

And here it was: Proof that twelve days of pointedly not talking about Epiphany didn't do any good because the day came anyway.

Clark never would have guessed his ship would make it this far. From what he could see, she'd slid a little.

Or a lot.

She'd taken out a couple of trees and then used reserve power to cloak herself. He thought about Area 51 and guessed he was lucky he'd just been here for an interview with Santa. The guys who always got caught were the ones who came to Earth for the premium shopping. As far as Clark knew, they were still stuck in a hangar in the middle of the desert, answering government questions, and cursing their stupid decision to go shopping for Prada.

_Tourists._

Bundled up in scarves and coats, they stood a little ways from the thing. Bruce had to admit, it was awesome. Bigger than he'd imagined and remarkably elegant. He wanted to climb around inside and pillage for tech. He had so many new ideas for his tank.

"You're looking at my ship the same way you look at me."

Bruce dropped his head to the side, contemplating. He pursed his lips and then answered honestly.

"I like toys," he said.

"Ah," Clark said, nodding. "So that's the old girl there. I'm performing a scan now and…"

He tapped his watch and showed Bruce the face. There was an unintelligible collection of characters flashing.

"There we go. See? It says 'Auto-repair complete.'" He swallowed and added, "I can go home," very softly.

"Oh," Bruce said and then coughed. He didn't look at Clark, just stared at the powerful lines of the Kryptonian craft. Finally, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "Well, I guess you have to go and get your story turned in. And the like. Yes."

"No, I think I'll stay," Clark tried to say casually.

Bruce's heart skipped a beat and Clark pretended not to hear. "Oh?" Bruce said a little too eagerly.

"Yep."

"But what about your story?"

"Finished and sent."

"…How?" It was said like a man trying hard to fight the hopefulness in his voice.

"Well, Krypton has e-mail, too. Ours is just superior."

"Of course."

"Of course."

"And your job?"

"I did mention that my boss is obsessed with Earth, right? So I spun it to him and he liked it: I'm going to be Krypton's first permanent Earth correspondent. 'Earth news as it happens.' Something like that. It's catchy."

"You'll just whip up stories and press 'send'? Across the universe?"

"What can I say? It's one of the things I'm going to miss: All that advanced, Kryptonian technology."

"Giving that up is a hardship for you." Bruce smirked and tilted his head.

"It is," Clark said, sliding closer. "On Krypton, we have things so far ahead of what you have it would make your head spin. The blenders don't even make noise."

"I'm sorry to pull you away from all that," Bruce said, looking down to watch Clark's arms as they went around him. Even through the coats, Clark was warm, like contained sunlight. The snow at his feet was melting.

"You don't have to apologize. You can just make it up to me."

"I can try," Bruce whispered. He suddenly felt very, very hot, but he could tell that not all of it was being this close to Clark's amazing body. He turned his chin up and looked into Clark's eyes.

They were red. Bright, shining Christmas red. The heat continued to wash over him and he felt his cheeks turn pink again. Wherever those eyes looked, warmth settled against his skin and worked deep into his bones. It was like that night before the fire all over again, so hot he thought he might melt and _like_ it.

"Laser eyes?" he asked, marveling at the shift from red back to impossible blue.

"It's a bit more complicated than that. There's a perfectly scientific—"

"Whatever," Bruce said. He pulled away and turned his back on Clark. "What's next? Ice breath? It just _fits_ doesn't it? I would have to end up with the weirdest boyfriend EVER." He threw his arms up and stomped away, kicking up snow as he went.

Clark perked up, tried not to laugh as Bruce almost fell. "Boyfriend?" he repeated and then hurried after Bruce like a lost puppy.

He'd tell him about the ice breath later.

The End

Many thanks to the Scissor Sisters for being the soundtrack for this. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a happy AU slash fic.


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